The Epoch of Incredulity
by Orion Kohaishu
Summary: In the worst of times, the best of men arises. AU Post-Apocalyptic piece from Remy's point of view.


**Title**: The Epoch of Incredulity

**Rating**: T/R It depends on later parts, so I haven't quite decided yet.

**Summary**: In the worst of times, the best of men arises. AU Post-Apocalyptic piece from Remy's point of view.

**The Epoch of Incredulity**

I know there must be a reason that I survived. I just can't fathom for the life I was so unfairly granted what that reason is.

I wasn't a great man, before their coming. In the eyes of saints and sinners I tended to lean a bit towards the latter end of the spectrum, and more than often scoffed at those following the path of their so-called 'righteousness.' I think, however long ago when my life had not yet begun, before the second birthing, that I was under the impression that we, as a race, were unstoppable. We were on top of the world, and as such felt that we had the right to destroy it. The world was our plaything, our dumping ground of an eon of human thoughts and ideas that were drowned in the ooze of our own arrogance before coming to light.

I wasn't much better, I suppose. I mean, sure, I recycled the cans and bottles on Wednesday night before dragging my trashcan down to curbside for the overpaid immigrants to haul off and dispose of with a year or so of hopes and dreams. But I never went out of my way to clean up the streets as I walked to and from the local pool clubs. To be honest, perhaps in the first time of my life, I didn't much care for the health of our planet; I mean, I figured that my time was contributing to the decline, but always shrugged it off onto a later generation. Let it be their problem, right?

If only.

"Do you remember?" the old man on the street had asked. He had been crazy before the shades had come, a bonified freak-show after; standing on the crumbled street corner that had been 42nd and... has it been so long? I've forgotten the crossroad. He stared with milky eyes too long without sight of hope or happiness at those who passed, screaming at them in his reedy, old man voice. "Do you remember?"

Did I remember? Of course I remember. It had only been... god lord, how long had it? But I remembered.

I remember the smell of urine and vomit down in the bus station when I first came to the city. I was fifteen, and running away from home, clinging to a hopeless ideal of opportunities. I remember the stench of the overflowing trash receptacles on the street sides, wandering in the hopes of a place to sleep without fear of death. The seductive, salty smell of the pretzel stand where I was mugged, and then I had nothing.

Honking cars outside of seedy hotel rooms, sleeping between the molded sheets of poverty and deciding which stores to lift from tomorrow, and which pawn dealers didn't already know my cons and would still take me. Gunshots heard in the dark of every alleyway and praying to the God I didn't believe in that I wouldn't be next... and yet, in some dark recess of my mind, wishing I were. The babbles on nonsensical words in every language under the sun, not even the English making sense to the jaded brain of the young man trying too hard to vanish.

I remember pieces and scraps of what had been a life, before they came. Slivers of life in the tortured jigsaw, battered beyond recognition and never again to fit together. What I remember was pointless, lost.

"No," I say to the ice remaining in my vodka rocks. "I don't remember."

It's only when I'm drunk that I admit I cannot remember much. Her tears. I hurt her, I remember that much. I wish I knew who she was or what I did to hurt her. If she loved me despite all I did, and what it was I did. But I know that I once had someone, who at the time my self-obsessed microcosm of myself and my misery could not contain, and that she cried.

I recall the words from a poem I read in a college class: Russian Lit. I only showed up twice. It didn't seem important at the time.

_I will no longer repeat_

_unspoken words._

_But in memory of that non-meeting_

_I will plant a sweetbriar._

When I remember who it was that I hurt, I will plant a sweetbriar for them. Maybe then I will know why they condemned me to live.

Pfft, who am I kidding? Even if I knew what the heck a sweetbriar was, the chances are better than impossible to me finding one in the screwed up world we live in.

Goodbye memories, hello life.

_Bottom's up._

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

This was, in a former life, the idea behind an epic role play that went about as far as... well, not as far as this chapter. But it always showed potential, and recently (read as: while working in retail, in between "price check on aisle seven" and "what do I want for dinner") I was recently told by one Remy what would happen next in his life. Very well then, sir. :D

-Orion


End file.
